


Anniversary

by Zoeleo



Series: Rara Avis [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 15:26:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeleo/pseuds/Zoeleo
Summary: An AU where Bruce adopts Jason but instead of making him Robin decides to y'know...actually try and be a good dad. Dick comes home to celebrate the one-year anniversary of Jason's adoption and he and Bruce have a serious conversation about the new addition's place in the family and among the bats.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cerusee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerusee/gifts).



> Hey folks! 
> 
> This is born out of a plot bunny harvest on what would happen if Bruce never made Jason Robin and instead gave him the home and help he needed. So...y'know. No Robin, means no Robin getting killed by the Joker, means no angst, right? hahaHaHAHAHAHAHA. 
> 
> Well...maybe not here in part one.

 

 

 

Dick’s just drawn one leg over the seat of the Spitfire when the manor door bursts open and a small figure comes hurtling across the lawn towards him, completely ignoring the gracefully curved walkway. Dick starts to brace for impact then changes his mind and lets himself be tackled into the grass.

“Hey Little Wing!” he laughs under the crushing weight of his little brother. All 70 pounds of him. Maybe 80 pounds now, Dick muses taking in the slight roundness to the arms and thighs pinning him down. Jason’s still not up to what he should be according to the weight charts Leslie had shown them for a boy his age, but he is catching up rapidly. God, he’d been such a short, scrawny, snarling thing the first time Dick had seen him. Dick’s heart still aches at the memory, but now it swells at how he’s changed into a rosy-cheeked boy with a gap-tooth grin.

“What’d you bring me?”

And more than his weight in sass.

“Bring you? Why would I bring you anything? It’s not your birthday!” Dick cries.

Jason rolls his eyes and leans back to sit on Dick’s waist.

“You _always_ bring me something.”

Dick huffs out an amused breath, “A terrible mistake. I’ve created a spoiled monster.”

“I’m not spoiled!” Jason protests and gets up, brushing the grass from his knees.

“I know,” Dick smiles and props himself up on his elbows, “And Megan made you cookies. Front pocket of the backpack.”

Dick points to the bag he’d wisely managed to hang from the handlebars before his collision with the curly-haired comet. Jason bounds away quickly and dips his hands into the bag and rifles through it. He pulls out a gallon Ziploc bag of chocolate chip cookies and hugs them to his chest cackling in delight. Dick pushes himself to his feet and takes great pleasure in hearing those cackles turn into squawks of irritation when he ruffles Jason’s thick hair into a spiky mess. Jason pulls away and glares at him. The boy glances at the plastic bag in his hands and then glares at Dick again.

“Hey! There’s only eleven in here!”

“Maybe she only made you eleven cookies,” Dick replies completely chalant.

“No one makes a batch of eleven cookies. You ate one, fat-ass,” Jason accuses and pokes him in the stomach.  
Dick loops an arm over Jason’s shoulder, “It’s called the ‘Big Brother Tax.’ You should be thankful I only ate one after driving them all the way out here for you.”

Jason makes a scoffing noise but he doesn’t throw Dick’s arm off, so Dick counts that as a win. They shamble up the front steps where Alfred is waiting for them.

Dick pulls Alfred into a one-armed hug with his free hand, “Good to see you Alfie.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you as well Master Richard. I was not sure whether we should expect the pleasure of your company.”

Dick doesn’t let the grimace he feels internally show on his face. Things between him and Bruce had been...rocky, the past couple years. It was a rare occasion for him to come to the manor, one usually reserved only for holidays. That had slowly been starting to change now that Jason was here. Dick knew only too well how the man’s naturally somber and quiet nature could unintentionally come off as dismissive and apathetic. He didn’t want Jason to have to navigate the same insecurities and loneliness he’d felt growing up alone in the manor. Granted, Jason didn’t seem to struggle with the solitary lifestyle as much as he had. Whereas Dick had missed being surrounded by the constant noise and crowd inherent growing up in a circus, Jason seemed mostly content to be left to his own devices. Dick often found him curled up on a couch in the library, nose buried in a books, or exploring the nooks and crannies of the house on his own.

“Of course I’d be here, Alfie! Can’t miss Little Wing’s big day,” he says, giving Jason a squeeze.

“Stop calling me that,” Jason blushes at the attention, “I’m not a baby.”

His embarrassment just makes Dick want to think up more excuses to celebrate the newest member of the family. Alfred had been the one to suggest they commemorate the first anniversary of Jason’s adoption and Dick had been happy to jump on board.

“Do you know how long you will being staying with us Master Richard?” Alfred asks, attempting to relieve him of his bag.

Dick shrugs and grips the straps tightly, refusing to let go.

“Through the weekend I think,” he answers.

It depends. On if he gets an emergency call from the Team. On if the world can avoid needing saving for just a couple days. On if he and Bruce can get along. He’ll do his best though to make it to Sunday. For Jason.

“You sure packed a lot for three days,” Jason says eyeing his bulging backpack.

“Homework,” Dick explains, “Apparently it’s a thing in college too. I have to do some studying while I’m here. How is school going for you?”

Jason’s face squishes, nose and eyebrows wrinkling, “Alright, I guess. I got an A on my last English paper. We had to read a book called _The Outsiders_ and then write a paper on what we thought the title meant and who the real ‘outsider’ was. Most people wrote about Ponyboy but I think they did that just because he’s the main character. So I wrote about how Dally and Darry were because they’re both on the far ends of the spectrum. Dally is so wild he even scares the other greasers sometimes, while Darry tries so hard to be responsible that he isn’t really a greaser anymore but he’ll never be a soc either.”

Dick raises his eyebrows, “Wow, sounds like a good paper! I’m not surprised you got an A. I hope it was an A-plus! What about your other classes?”

“Mr. Preacher says if I do the extra credit assignment I can bring my science grade up to a B for the year.”

“And math?” Dick can’t help but ask.

Jason groans.

“Mrs. Babbitt hates me.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Babbitt doesn’t hate you,” Dick reassures him.

“She does! I try really hard but when I ask her for help she just repeats exactly what she said over again! If I didn’t understand her the first time how am I supposed to get it the second time? I think she doesn’t want me to get it. She likes failing me.”

Dick purses his mouth. He doesn’t know Mrs. Babbitt, he went to Gotham Academy when he lived here. Bruce had agreed to let Jason attend the nearby public school per the boy’s request after just one disastrous month into the school year at the academy. Apparently his accent and Park Row origins made him even more of a target than Dick’s had, and Jason lacked the easy-going extroverted personality that had helped Dick shrug off or win over his snobby peers. He hopes Jason’s allegation against Mrs. Babbitt is just that—a childish complaint against a disliked teacher and not borne out of any actual prejudice on her part.

“Well, I have to go talk with Bruce, but how about after that you show me the chapter you’re on and I’ll help you with your homework. Sound good? I was a mathlete, you know!” Dick boasts, sticking out his chest.

“You’re a giant fu—friggin’ nerd,” Jason corrects himself after a stern glance from Alfred.

Dick laughs and turns to the butler, “Alfie, do you know where Bruce is?”

“Master Bruce was in his study the last time I saw him. If you could remind him dinner will be soon.”

The last time I saw him. That was the code phrase Alfred used to indicate Bruce was in the cave, otherwise he would have simply been ‘in the study.’ Alfred knows exactly where Bruce is at all times, though Dick has yet to discover exactly how yet. He’s narrowed it down to Alfred having his own cache of trackers sewn into all of their clothing or telepathy. Dick nods his thanks and takes the stairs two at a time. He drops his pack off in his room and heads into the west wing. He knocks at the study door and slides in when there’s no response. The room is empty. Dick walks up to the stately old grandfather clock and moves the hands. He steps through the passage that appears and winds his way down the steps without bothering to turn on the lights. He knows this path by heart. When he reaches the bottom, Bruce isn’t seated in front of the computer console going over case files like he expects. Instead, Bruce is silhouetted against one of the display cases; the case holding his old Robin suit.

“Hey Bruce,” he calls out from the bottom stair.

Bruce looks over his shoulder but his stance doesn’t change to meet Dick, his feet stay planted, toes pointing resolutely towards the glass.

“Hello, Dick. I’m glad you could make it. Jason will be happy you’re here.”

Dick frowns a little, “Are _you_ happy I’m here?”

Bruce does turn at that, “Why of course, Dick. I’m always happy when you come home.”

Dick scuffs the toes of his boots over the slip-resistant coating on the floor, “I wasn’t sure after last time.”

Bruce raises one sardonic eyebrow.

“I said I’m always happy when you come home. Not that I’m always unhappy when you leave,” he says wryly.

“That’s fair,” Dick chuckles then changes the subject to Jason.

It’s always easier to change the subject to Jason. Ha. They’re like an old divorced couple who only have the kids in common now. He’s the one thing they can talk about without arguing. Most of the time.

“Jason was telling me about the A he got in English. Sounds like he’s doing well in school.”

Bruce’s shoulders relax and he smiles one of his barely-there smiles.

“He’s improving greatly. He excels at the subjects he enjoys but it’s proving difficult to motivate him to put effort into those he does not.”

“Math,” Dick guesses.

“Math,” Bruce confirms solemnly, “Though he could try harder in history as well.”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Dick warns, “He’s got so much other stuff going on to get used to. I’m amazed he’s come as far as he has. I mean, he doesn’t even bite or scratch anymore!”

Bruce chuffs with restrained laughter, “No, he doesn’t. At least not very often.”

“Oh?”

“There may have been an incident at the dentist’s office.”

Dick tries not to laugh at the mental picture that arises and fails.

“How’s he doing outside of school?” he asks more seriously.

Bruce catches his tone and replies in kind, “Better. Alfred is still finding food stashes hidden around the house. But he’s accepting touch more, occasional hugs and the like.”

Dick puts a hand to his side tenderly, “Yeah, I noticed. He tackled me when I pulled in”

“And when he broke a windowpane with a baseball last month he didn’t run away or hide this time.”

Dick nods, remembering the time Jason had accidentally kicked over a lamp trying a flip Dick showed him. In retrospect Dick probably should have taken him outside instead of teaching him tumbles in the den. It took Dick and Alfred three hours to find him cowering in the closets of one of the old servant’s quarters in the attic of the east wing behind a box of outdated linens. Then it had taken another hour for the two of them to coax him out and assure him Bruce wasn’t going to throw him out or hurt him when he came home from work.

“Baseball, huh? Not gymnastics like his big brother?” Dick needles to lighten the mood.

“He could if wanted to. He’s a quick learner, has great aptitude for picking up the physical movements but as Alfred so often reminds me; he is not you and we should help foster his own talents and interests.”

“Spoken like a true mountain top sage. God bless Alfred, what would we do without him?” Dick asks the cave ceiling.

“And ever since I took him to a Gotham Knights game, one of those interests has been baseball. He’s even expressed a desire to try out for the school team.”

“School team? Really?” Dick asks in surprise.

“I think it’s a good idea. It would be beneficial for him to socialize more. Learn the value of teamwork.”

Dick doesn’t miss how Bruce’s eyes track back to the costume in the case.

“So what are you up to? When Alfred said you were down here I figured you’d be working on a case.”

“Thinking.”

Dick reins in his frustration at the vague answer.

“About?” he asks, forcing the point.

Bruce’s expression closes off. It’s the look Bruce wears that usually precedes one of their arguments. The one that lets Dick know he isn’t going to like what Bruce says next. He feels his hackles start to rise.

“Bruce,” Dick pushes, voice hard.

“Jason has been doing so well, showing great promise. He’s been with us for a year now and proven he’s trustworthy,” Bruce builds up to his point, “I was thinking of offering him Robin.”

“What?” Dick hisses, fingers unconsciously digging into his thighs at the resurgence of their last argument. The one that had him storming out in the dark and rain on his motorcycle almost without a helmet. The one that left Jason watching from the front porch, disappointment clear on his face because Dick had promised to take him for a ride on the bike to boardwalk for funnel cake the next day.

“No! Bruce, we talked about this! Robin is mine. That’s the name my mother gave me. I made that costume; I made that legacy, not you! It’s not yours to pass on.”

“Why don’t you want to pass it on?” Bruce asks, “You love Jason; don’t you want him to have that same opportunity? He’s flourishing in his education but his behavior although improved continues to be…erratic. The discipline and responsibility of Robin would be good for him.”

“Erratic? He’s a twelve-year-old boy, Bruce! They’re supposed to be erratic! That doesn’t mean you put him in costume and take him out to fight crime!”

“It worked with you,” Bruce states matter-of-factly.

When Dick doesn’t reply, Bruce continues, “What if we gave Jay something of his own? Not Robin. Let him pick his own name, his own costume? Would you object then?”

Dick feels the righteous anger shrivel on his tongue. Bruce wanders over to the console and sits down in the chair there. He places his elbows on his knees and steeples his fingers, watching Dick think. Dick looks around the cave, cataloguing the trophies and how they got there. He listens to the bats squeaking from further in the cave and the echoing drip; comforting sounds after all of these years. He thinks about swinging over rooftops and the sheer joy of flying, air rushing through his hair. He thinks about the fierce burn of pride in his chest at seeing justice done and the warmer glow of thanks from a victim saved. He thinks about the agonizing guilt over the ones he couldn’t and the dark pulsating anger when a criminal they brought down walks off scot-free a week later. He thinks about the broken bones and bullet grazes and…

“Yes,” he says confidently.

“Why?”

Dick sighs. There’s no condescension in Bruce’s tone. The man sounds honestly baffled.

“Because I don’t want Jay to get hurt, Bruce. Look, I wanted to be Robin. When my parents died I needed justice for their murder and I was going to go out there and get it with or without your help. Jason’s not like that. He doesn’t need vengeance or a purpose. He needs a home. A family. Remember that time Two-face beat me so badly I was laid up in bed for a week? Do you really want to see that happen to Jason? Because it will. No matter how hard you try to keep him safe in the field, he’s going to get hurt at some point.”

The skin around Bruce’s eyes goes tight and his lips thin.

Dick’s laugh is strained, “Geez, Bruce. Can’t you just enroll him in karate or kickboxing or something if you’re that worried about discipline and stuff?”

Bruce’s eyes widen a fraction; the closest he’ll ever come to appearing surprised. The most intelligent man Dick’s ever met and his mind jumps straight past mundane solutions to vigilantism. Bruce’s following grunt of consideration is almost amusing.

Dick rakes his hair back, “I have to go. I promised Jay I’d help him with his math homework. Just promise me you’ll think about it a little more before bringing it up, okay? Ask Alfred for his opinion. Which, by the way, he told me to tell you it’s almost dinner time.”

With that, Dick turns his back on his old mentor and partner. Jason is waiting for him in the kitchen, feet kicking back against the rungs of the high stool he’s perched on. Books, notepads and pencils are scattered over the island while Alfred stands at the counter operating the mixer.

“What are you making there Alfie?” Dick pauses, looking over the butler’s shoulder into the bowl full of oddly pinkish cake batter.

“Master Jason has requested a ‘Cherry-cola’ cake for tomorrow evening’s festivities. Something I’m quite unfamiliar with,” Alfred explains politely though Dick thinks he detects a slightly disgusted undercurrent from the angle of his mustache, “I wanted to give it a test run tonight in case something went awry.”

Dick sticks his finger in, “Tastes good. I’m sure it’ll be just fine.”

Alfred hums non-committedly and Dick leaves to plop down on the stool next to Jason. Jason leans forward conspiratorially, hand cupped over his mouth.

“I told him it’s just a box mix with a can of soda-pop instead of water but he looked at me like I was crazy. Heard him muttering in the pantry he’d ‘r _ather go to bloody Buckingham Palace and slap the queen before defiling Wayne Manor with a box mix._ ’ So…” Jason shrugs.

“Young Master Jason has a set of rather imaginative ears,” Alfred retorts dryly.

Dick shakes his head at the two of them bends over to look at Jason’s math text.

“Alright, let me see what we’ve got here. Ratios. Ugh. Ratios are the worst, am I right? They gave me a hard time too,” he lies and picks up a pencil, “Okay. Question one: are these ratios equivalent? Twelve cones for every six bowls to sixteen cones for every ten bowls…”

They spend the next thirty minutes poring over worksheets and test problems before the oven timer goes off for the lasagna, and if Jason notices that Dick is bumping shoulders or patting his back in encouragement more than usual, he doesn’t say anything.


End file.
